


A Curious Affair

by foucqre



Category: Houdini & Doyle (TV)
Genre: ALL the cheesy cliches, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, First Dates, Ghosts, M/M, Sick Character, and they were ROOMMATES, based on a tumblr shitpost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25014199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foucqre/pseuds/foucqre
Summary: There are some things that cannot be left alone, and Arthur thinks- no, knows- that magic is one of them. Thus, ensues his efforts to prove that magic is real and, furthermore, that his friend Harry is a magician who wanted to keep it all for himself. He doesn't expect to find that the real magic is the relationship they had all along.Based on that one Tumblr post.
Relationships: Arthur Conan Doyle/Harry Houdini
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	A Curious Affair

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure: 0 research has gone into this. Arthur here is based on APH England (yes I started writing this in my hetalia phase, it's that old) and Watson from Sherlock; Harry Houdini is based on that one 39 Clues book about him. I'm not even sure this qualifies for the Houdini and Doyle (TV) fandom tag, since I didn't watch that show either, but wanted to use the Houdini/Doyle ship tag. I'm trying to say that this will be mostly based on that post, and will likely just be a 10k word shitpost. Have fun!

The problem is this: Arthur believes in magic and Harry does not.

This wouldn't be a problem, of course, if Arthur wasn't convinced that Harry is only pretending to hate magic in order to conceal that he does, in fact, actually possess it. It makes sense, in his head: if you have a precious resource, would you go tell everyone about it? No, of course not. Best to keep close something that valuable. But whenever he tried to say it aloud, it always sounded- well- crazy. In this economy, being perceived as crazy and getting shipped off to an asylum meant a fate worse than death. Death isn't good for your health, so one tends to avoid it whenever possible.

It also wouldn't be a problem if Arthur would be able to content himself with his situation. In a socially perfect world, they would acknowledge their differences, shake hands, and agree to disagree. That would be the end of any social unpleasantries regarding the subject. But he doesn't live in that kind of paradise so he can only do what he must: get The Great Harry Houdini to admit that magic is real and, if he could manage it, make him perform actual magic.

_ Yes _ , Arthur thinks, reclining on his favourite sofa.  _ That can be the only way to settle this _ .

\--

The first thing Arthur does is plan a picnic. Yes, a most devious plan.

Seemingly innocuous, he would invite Harry to have lunch somewhere deep in the somewhere private, and magical. Like a forest. England's forests were full of invisible fairies and tiny pixies who were said to show themselves only to those who possessed magic. Or maybe they would stumble across a ley line and Harry's innate talent would manifest itself even without him knowing it. Or maybe the privacy would be enough to get him to reveal deep secrets about himself or how he feels deep inside- like something burning and powerful whenever he's around Arthur. Something like... Magic.

It was a foolproof plan. Arthur might've cackled like a comical villain as he devised it, but no one was there to witness it so it didn't happen.

A few days later, the food was packed and a decent spot deep within the forest was chosen. Now all Arthur would have to do is actually invite the other man.

As he stood in front of his friend's door, he realized he hadn't called ahead or anything. What if Harry had other plans? Or he wasn't in town, or even in this country? Those stunts he performs took him everywhere these days.  _ Of course _ a travelling showman wouldn't have time for an impromptu lunch deep in the forest. Arthur could feel The Plan fall apart before it even had a chance to begin. He turns to go, but the door opens and a strong hand grips his shoulder before he could take a step further.

"Art?" The hand forces him to stop and turn to the voice.

"Hi, Harry." His shoulder is freed, and he finds himself facing the very person who caused all of this. Said person is beaming at Arthur as though he isn't the bane of Arthur's peace of mind.

"What are you doing here?" He eyes the basket in Arthur's hands. "Planning a lunch, are you?"

"I was, but I didn't send a card or anything and you might be busy so-"

"Nonsense! You dropped in at a good time, actually. My next performance isn't until next week."

A young, feminine voice pipes up. "Sir, your Thursday is-"

Harry narrows his eyes and his voice drops an octave. "Nothing that can't be rescheduled? Good. See to that." He turns back to his relieved friend. "Give me a few minutes to dress properly and I'm all yours for the afternoon."

Arthur is too relieved to realize that his friend might not have been exactly truthful about his schedule. He nods as Harry walks away to get into clothes more appropriate for a midday picnic. He barely notices the young secretary typing frantic letters to people he doesn't care to know about or anything Harry said after knowing he was free. His mind is stuck in a loop of  _ yes ok the plan isn't dead yet you can do this _ and  _ don't screw this up _ .

\--

The first half of the trek in the forest isn't bad. The leaves gave ample shade while still letting enough light to see pass through. Harry isn't exactly informed that the picnic is deep- really quite deep- into the forest so he couldn't be feeling all too great walking around in a stiff suit. Still, he’s smiling like something good is happening to him as he walks alongside Arthur, even occasionally brushing their hands together. That last part probably isn't related to the cheeky grin on his face, Arthur thinks. He's probably seen fairies while we were walking. That confuses Arthur. They weren't even that far in yet, and he assumed that fairies only inhabited the secluded areas. He shrugs off the thought. They were probably interested in the magic thing inside Harry. Arthur is sure he himself was, in any case. Interested in revealing the truth about magic, that is.

The further they get into the forest, the darker it gets. At first, it was just the blanket of leaves getting thicker, blocking out more sunlight. Then, thunder booms in the distance and fat drops of water drip from upper boughs and onto their heads. They hurry to the cover of a nearby oak, its leaves numerous enough to keep them and their lunch quite dry. They were a bit far off from the spot Arthur found but if Harry had already seen fairies, then surely it was fine. It isn't exactly an ideal picnic spot, what with the rain and all, but they made do.

The blanket is spread out beneath them and food is brought out of the basket. Tins of glazed ham, bread, and smoked fish are laid out beside colourful jars of jams and jellies. From somewhere inside the same basket, Arthur brings out fresh fruit. There are even some candles and flowers inside, but the rain made it impossible to get anything lit. He settles for placing the flowers in a nice bowl that he somehow managed to keep inside along with everything else.

He has outdone himself and he knew it. This is a sure-fire way to get what he wants, and he could make every effort to impress if need be.

Harry looks on in a mix of confusion, amazement, and maybe more than a little affection. This is justified because someone just pulled out the picnic version of a four-course meal out of one (1) reasonably sized basket for a picnic in the rain with him. This must be what Arthur feels when he keeps talking about magic.

"Well?" Arthur looks at him with such warmth in his eyes and Harry feels… Well, right now he feels like he could stand in the middle of the storm and barely feel cold.

"You mean, what I think?" He pretends to sternly assess the meal before him. He lets out a horrified gasp. "Arthur how could you- are you even a true Englishman? Where's the tea?"

Arthur tries to look hurt but there is a gleam in his eyes as he pulls a great thermos from who knows where. "I can't believe you'd think that of me, Harold. I just didn't want to bring it out too soon in case it got cold."

Harry lets out a mock sigh. "I guess you've bested me, old chap." He looks off mournfully into the distance. "I must now live a life of shame, forced to eat whatever you cook," he shudders, "even your scones."

"Hey, my cooking can't be that bad."

"Arthur, a cat died."

"Well, the less said about my scones the better." He takes a bite of the fish and relishes the fact that he didn't cook it himself. "It's lucky for both of us that my landlady is gracious enough to provide lunch."

"Yes, I suppose it is." Harry has a little smile on his lips as he helps himself to the food and Arthur realizes that he is probably getting distracted thinking about lips when he should be dealing with the task at hand.

After a few minutes of eating peacefully, he tries to get back on track. How does one casually ask if a friend has seen any magical creatures nearby? As Harry takes another helping of bread and ham, Arthur clears his throat. "So, erm." Ah shit. Might as well go for it. "Seen any fairies nearby?"  _ God _ is he terrible at this.

A playful grin dances on Harry's lips as he chews on his sandwich.  _ Arthur, for Christ's sake, stop thinking about the lips _ . "Other than the one you're talking to?"

"I'm talking to a fairy right now?" Arthur sits up so quickly he forgets about the fork in his hand, nearly stabbing himself with it. He squints at the dust motes in front of him, as if they were the tiny, winged creatures he wants to meet. "Are they invisible?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "Haha, very funny."

"Yes, haha, of course. They're not real, is what you meant, right?"  _ Keep cool, Arthur. He mustn't know about The Plan. _

"Or that the person who- never mind." They remain in silence for the rest of their meal. Surprisingly, it’s not uncomfortable; just a lack of conversation that said more than words ever could. Above them, they could hear the pounding rain quiet, and eventually stop. "Look," he holds out a hand. "The rain's stopped. It's going to get dark soon." Harry takes out a watch from inside his jacket pocket. "We should start heading home."

"Yes, we should," replies Arthur, who is already putting away the used dishes and empty tins into what Harry is starting to believe is a truly magical basket. He is deep in thought. Maybe fairies don't want to show up because the rain would've made their wings wet and useless. He then brightens up. There is still a chance that they would "accidentally" trip over a ley line or a fae ring.

"Let's go." Harry leads the way and offers to carry the basket but Arthur refuses, taking the burden upon himself. Harry leaves it alone and instead takes his elbow to guide him and make sure they don't trip on anything.

At one point, they came across a stream that surely hadn't been there before. As if he read Harry's mind, Arthur muses, "it must've been the rain." It isn't that wide or deep, so they managed to cross it with minimal difficulty. The only hitch is Arthur tripping on something falling back into the clear water. Harry has a pretty good grip on his elbow, and this means they both fell into the stream. It is thankfully free of large rocks so nothing is injured. Except maybe Harry's dignity, given that right now they were soaked to their knees and elbows with mud and all he could think of is the fact that Arthur is pinned beneath him and it doesn't look like any of them were in any rush to move.

Arthur must have had the wind knocked out of him from his fall. That must be it. There couldn’t possibly be any other reason he is rendered breathless. Certainly, it has nothing to do with the sight of Harry towering over him, pinning him and his basket down, and breathing heavily as well. A silence punctuated only by the rustling leaves stretches between them. They were close enough for Arthur to count the individual lashes framing Harry’s twinkling- there is no other word for it- brown eyes.

An owl hoots in the distance, reminding them that it would be getting dark soon.

Arthur feels the blood rush to his face, and he is definitely sure it was from the cold or something. He looks up and is immediately greeted by the long line of Harry’s neck. Definitely  _ or something. _ "We should move, there's still a ways to go." Harry clears his throat and nods furiously as he seemingly roused himself from whatever daze they- he- was in earlier. He straightens up and holds out a hand to pull Arthur up and they don't say another word the rest of the way home.

The silence isn't uncomfortable. Arthur feels himself smile, despite the fact that they were both dripping mud with every step. They really found a magic ley line! He’s sure; there was... something within him that shifted as they stumbled through it together. He'd never tell Harry though. That might compromise The Plan.

If he hadn’t been so absorbed with The Plan, he might've noticed that he isn't the only one who felt that shift. Or the fact that he doesn't let go of Harry's hand. Or that Harry doesn't seem to mind holding on to it.

Eventually, the trees thin and the path back to civilization appeared. They walk up to Harry's house, slopping mud onto the driveway and up the steps. He lets go of the warm hand and unlocks the door to his home. "We need to do that again someday," he grins at Arthur. "Preferably soon."

"I couldn't agree more." Arthur looks like he wants to say more but decides to keep it to himself. He turns to the carriage he left parked in the driveway and starts to go.

"Well, my next performance is in Charleston. And I'd like you to come." Arthur pauses midway to his carriage and looks like he's considering the offer.

"I will." Because he's already plotting Phase 2 of The Plan.

Arthur doesn't notice the smile that Harry beams at his back.

\-----

Getting sick is not part of The Plan. It is quite possibly the exact opposite, really.

Being sick means he couldn't go out and trick Harry into showing him actual magic. It means he would have to stay inside, partially because his landlady threatened him with castration if he so much as stepped one foot out of his room. So what if he nearly collapsed trying to climb down the stairs? She couldn’t threaten his well-being for the sake of his well-being. She even offers to bring his food to his bed, just this once, reminding him that she is his landlady, not housekeeper. He is particularly grateful for this because the rest of the room tends to sway if he stood up too much.

Still, he thinks, might as well get some things done. He took out the papers from his bedside table and continued to revise the Holmes chapter he had written last week.

_ We stumbled slowly along in the darkness, with the black loom of the craggy hills around us, and the yellow speck of light burning steadily in front. There is nothing so deceptive as the distance of a light upon a pitch-dark night, and sometimes the glimmer seemed to be far away upon the horizon and somevfhb nslkafmmmm _

He gave a start as he realized he must have dozed off with his fingers on the typewriter’s keys. Christ, he really needs to rest his eyes. Maybe just a quick nap before supper. He lets his eyelids fall shut.

It feels like he'd only been asleep for a few seconds when he heard water dripping somewhere. It was annoying, but he ignored it, until the soft drips were replaced with crashing waves.

His eyes snap open, wide awake, to find that his bedroom had somehow turned into a raging sea. All the furniture except for the bed remained bolted where they were, leaving his bed to toss and pitch with the growing waves. He gripped the wooden frame and tried not to fall into the water.  _ What the devil is going on here? _

A wet, slimy tentacle slithered up to his feet and began to pull him down. The sheets held him in place as he struggled to free himself from the monster. It called him, softly at first, then more insistent.

"Arthur, Arthur," it went. Its voice sounded oddly familiar. "Arthur." A warm hand grips his arm and he stops trying to pry it off as he finally wakes up. Blinking, he realized that the bed is no longer rocking and the room is miraculously free of water and deep-sea monsters.

Sighing in relief, he leaned back on the bed and looked at the face of the man attached to the arm. "Harry, a pleasure seeing you here." He broke in a bout of coughing that worried them both. Harry looked especially grave, and Arthur had a sudden urge to jump up and say that he isn't that sick, really.

"It seems your landlady hasn't been exaggerating." Arthur wanted to say that she probably was, looking at the size of the bag Harry brought with him.

"It looks worse than it is, I promise. The doctor made a house call earlier and said that it'll go away on its own after a day or so."

"And I'm guessing he told you to rest?" At Arthur's nod, he gestures to the papers from earlier. "That doesn’t seem like rest at all, so I’m afraid I must resort to drastic measures." He bends over his bag and pulls out a container of something that smelled great. "Here." He takes off the lid and wow, it smells even better now.

"What is it?"

"Chicken soup, but with herbs to help you recover." Arthur's eyes light up as he takes the bowl and starts to sip from it. Harry hands him a spoon and he smiles gratefully. It tastes even better than it smells.

"Healing herbs, eh? Powerful sorcery right there," he says around a spoonful of soup. Harry chuckles.

"No sorcery here, I'm afraid. Just science."

"Ah yes, science."

"Arthur did you just wink at me." It wasn’t a question.

"No," Arthur winks again.

"Stop winking," he says, but he couldn't even pretend to be serious. He drags a chair to Arthur's bedside so they could speak eye-to-eye.

After a few more spoonfuls, Arthur speaks again. "How did you even find out I’m sick? It only just started this morning."

"Like I said, your landlady dropped me a- let's say- sternly worded note earlier."

"But what made you come all the way here?" He gestures, with his spoon, to the food in his hands. "I'm not ungrateful, but I'm guessing you don't normally go around blackmailing sick people into eating delicious food you bring."

"Well, I was planning on visiting soon anyway so I thought I might as well drop by today. And a good thing I did too," he nods to the papers. "You'd have worked yourself to death if I haven't stepped in." Arthur starts to protest but the other man raises a hand as if that made it final. "Now go to sleep."

"I literally just woke up and-"

"And you need more rest? Yes, I believe that's correct." And Arthur might have protested a bit more, but the soup is settling nicely in his stomach and the sheets are suddenly more comfortable and… Maybe he could let Harry win an argument just this once.

When Harry is sure that his friend is actually asleep, he sets to preparing for bed himself. It was quickly darkening outside, and he doesn't really feel like riding home in a storm. He might as well stay the night, Harry reasons. There is a perfectly sized couch in a corner of the room that looked comfortable enough and went to change for bed.

He is just settling on the soft cushions when Arthur's landlady softly opens the door to check on her patient. She saw him sound asleep and mouths a soft thank you to Harry.

"No problem, Mrs. H," he whispers back and lays down to close his eyes. In minutes, sleep claimed him.

Sometime later, he is woken to the sound of feverish groaning and incoherent babbling. It is much, much too early for Harry to be awake and he cursed whatever supernatural forces watched over him for letting him sleep so lightly. Still, he isn't now, and it sounded like Arthur still is. He softly padded to the bed where his sick friend lay.

Heat is coming off him in waves, with sweat dripping from every pore. Arthur keeps writhing out of grasp, away from Harry who keeps trying to comfort him. Though he is clearly still unconscious, he keeps muttering something unintelligible. It could have been "don't you leave me" or "donkey freely" but it is most likely both. Harry decides it is probably best to wake Arthur from what seemed like a nightmare.

"Arthur?" He asks softly. He tries to shake the man awake- gently at first, then more insistently.

All of a sudden, Arthur stills and bolts upright. His wandering hand finds Harry's and though he is still isn't quite awake, his ramblings become less incoherent. His feverish gaze fixed on Harry. "You mustn't tell Harry that I know his secret, it's okay, I know what it is and I feel it too, his magic, really-"

The rest of the sentence is lost in further babbling and Arthur eventually dozes off between one word and the next. Not that Harry noticed this. His own brain is still stuck somewhere five seconds ago, trying to process exactly what Arthur just said.

It can't be true, can it? It can only be the fevered ramblings of an ailing man. It's nothing more, he tells himself. His wholly uncooperative mind refused to believe this. He found himself grinning until his cheeks hurt and went back to sleep feeling lighter than before.

The morning came, and with it is a headache big enough to crack Arthur's skull. Still, it is something of an improvement compared to yesterday's mix of high fever, tiredness, overall soreness. Last night's sweat still clung to him and he tried to get up to take a bath. "Try" being the operative word. His attempt at wakefulness must have angered some gods who then struck at his every nerve with lightning.

His groan of pain is met with rustling sheets and five feet of worried friend coming to help him. It comforts him more than he'd care to admit. Did Harry really stay the night after bringing him magic soup?

Come to think of it, he does recall dreaming about talking about his Plan to a huge pineapple who sounded like Houdini. After said pineapple tried to hug him and whisper his name. Afterwards, the pineapple turned into a chained safe that kept trying to convince him that it is just as good as any other pineapple. What a weird dream.

His headache gave him another thwack and helpfully reminded him that he needed to get washed and dressed for the day. Luckily, Harry is there to help him with just that. He led Arthur to the bathroom and let him lean against his shoulder as they walked.

It's to support him of course, nothing more. A distant corner of Harry's mind laughs at this wishful thinking.

He sits Arthur in the bathtub and leaves him to wash himself, as he kept insisting. While he was bathing, Harry goes to make his bed and to get Arthur's clothes from the closet. He tries to pick out the ones he'd normally see Arthur wearing- pale dress shirt and dark tweed suit- and set them out on the made bed, but for the jacket he slung over a chair.

Arthur seems to have regained more of his strength as he walks on his own from the steaming bathroom to his bed. He finds the clothes Harry set out for him and calls out a quick thanks before ducking behind a curtain to change. He comes out and insists that Harry stay for breakfast to make up for, what he called,  _ the unpleasantness that caring for me is likely to have been. _

To which Harry nearly replied that caring for him might be the only thing he could see himself enjoy doing for a long time and-  _ wow _ , he needs to pause for a second there. He should really get this affection-for-a-friend thing of his under control. Except that it is more than just affection. And he'd certainly like to be more than friends. And, perhaps most dangerously, he doesn't want to get it under control at all.

But Harry says none of this. He just smiles and assures Arthur that breakfast would more than make up for last night- as long as it isn't Arthur who cooks it. They both laugh at this, with no malice. Just a familiar warmth that makes its home in Harry's chest.

\-----

When Arthur fully recovered, it had been around two weeks after the picnic. Phase 2 is still a go, and yet they somehow find themselves stuck in a haunted establishment. Harry believes this is Arthur's fault, given he is the one who got them rooms. Arthur, on the other hand, believes this is Harry's fault, given that he let Arthur get them their rooms.

It happened like this: Harry is to perform in Charleston and his secretary was to book rooms for him. Arthur, who was invited to come along, volunteered to secure their lodgings. Harry saw no reason to veto this and, to his secretary’s increasing dismay, asked her to cancel any previous rooms she may have booked. Arthur had an old friend, Marlon, who ran a reputable inn near the outskirts of Charleston, and it seemed he was willing to rent them rooms for a reduced price. Marlon might have sounded cryptic in the letter he sent in reply to Arthur’s inquiries, but Arthur merely chalked it up to his friend’s usual eccentric behaviour.

So they got cheap rooms. So far so good.

The inn is nothing grand to look at, Harry thinks as he steps out of the carriage. Still, being on the outskirts of town allowed it to have a countryside-ish appeal, a welcome break from the monotone of living in the city. They step inside and he is struck by a sense of, nothing inherently wrong, but definitely a bit off. Ah, that must be his tiredness triggering his paranoia. When they both have their luggage in hand, they walk up to the counter to see to their rooms.

Or at least they would have. “I’m sorry, pal, but there’s been a weird sudden increase in guests since,” he looks off dramatically in the distance before adding, “the incident.” He brightens up again almost immediately. “Your room is fine, though, so don’t worry-“

“Room? As in singular?” Arthur could hardly keep the incredulous tone out of his voice. At least his voice doesn’t resort to a high squeak as the implications of a singular room dawn upon him.

“There is literally only one room left available, yes. You didn’t specify in your letter you would be bringing,” Marlon looks over Harry, “a friend.” At Arthur’s stare, he shakes his head. “Oh ye of little faith. It’s a good room. Nothing like a honeymoon suite-“ Harry turns an interesting shade of pink “-but it’s big enough for me to bring in an extra cot for you guys. “

“Hey, we can make this work,” says Harry, when he sees Arthur’s hesitant look.

He doesn’t need to know that Arthur was secretly cheering the fact that they would be rooming together. Such a situation would only help him observe Harry for the plan. Still, he couldn’t seem too eager. Instead, he says, “well, it isn’t too late to find other lodgings, is it?”

Lightning flashed across the sky, thunder booming a second later, almost as if in answer to his question. Great sheets of rain slapped against the glass of the windows. Great, another storm. If this wasn’t extremely helpful to his Plan, Arthur would have been extremely suspicious of the number of storms happening around them. They do live in England, but it is the middle of June. What the fuck. It hadn’t even been raining when they came in, he’s sure of that. They were an hour away from the city, and this seemed like a particularly bad storm. The kind that trapped guests in certain large estates and allowed murder mysteries to happen.

“Well, I suppose that train left the station.” Harry shouldered his bags. “It can’t be that bad, right?”

“That’s the spirit,” says Marlon, who is most definitely encouraging them and not pointing out a ghost he just saw. Clearly, this is not his first rodeo; he has the look of a man who has seen shit. He places their keys on Harry’s open palm. “Enjoy your stay!”

\--

The room is certainly… quaint. The walls are painted off-white, a bland painting hung up here and there to stave off the monotony. The floor is a dark wood, contrasting well with the walls. A door probably leading to the bathroom stood to the side. There isn’t much, furniture-wise. A couple of chairs around a small corner table. A nightstand with a lamp. And of course, the singular queen-sized bed.

The room isn’t small, per se, but it will definitely be crowded once a cot is brought in. Clearly, the room has reached its bed-containing capacity. Both Arthur and Harry think to themselves that one bed would have been enough, considering the size of the absolute unit, though neither of them say it. This is because it is considered unbecoming to show your platonic friend how much you would like to share a bed with them. Instead, they each keep the thought to themselves, and converse platonically like cowards.

With the unnatural storm still raging outside, it was unthinkable to go outdoors. Arthur couldn’t even see outside from the window near the bed. Is the window even leading to an outside? Until the storm stops, we may never know. He wants to ask Harry, but Harry is outside, and Arthur is sure he said why but Arthur might not have been listening to him right then. Arthur doesn’t feel like going out, so he just tries to sleep as soon as he finishes unpacking.

Harry left the room to explore the rest of the hotel, which seems bigger than it had appeared from the road. From what he could tell, this place appears to be ancient, yet reasonably well-kept. As he passes by rows of closed doors, he recalls Marlon saying that the inn was completely booked. If this was the case, there is an alarming lack of occupants. The thought doesn’t sit well with him.  _ Or they could be in the dining area, _ he reasons. He’s probably right, seeing as how it  _ is _ dinner time. Yes, that must be it.

Except that the dining area held, at most, three people at the moment. And two of them are likely part of the staff. Hardly enough people to fill an inn of this size, at any rate. Well, the occupants aren’t really his problem. His paranoia is just working overtime, probably from him being tired from travel. People could just be staying inside their rooms, getting an early rest. Harry shakes his head. He was thinking too much.

He picks up some food for him and Arthur before deciding to head back. God knows they hadn’t had anything since lunch, and it’s probably for the best to stay inside their room for now.

Harry hums quietly to himself as he retraces his steps to their room.  _ Huh,  _ he thinks _ , is this really the hallway I used earlier?  _ He reasons that it must be, since the entire place has a pretty straightforward layout- from what he had seen- and he’s retracing his steps so it must be, right? As if answering his thoughts, a broken laugh echoes off a distant hallway.  _ So maybe the other occupants aren’t dead _ , he tries to joke to himself, but it doesn’t seem so funny now. In the dark. With only a candle. As the storm rages on outside.

“Fuck this.” Harry is not entirely aware he is saying this aloud, but he whole-heartedly agrees with the sentiment. He needs to get back to Arthur right now. He doesn’t believe in ghosts, but he knows when to fucking book it.

\-----

While Harry continues to run for his life, Arthur wakes up from his unexpected nap. Stretching, he yawns long enough to wonder what time it was. He’s still sitting in the same chair from when he is observing the window earlier. There’s a sudden movement in a corner and he turns, expecting to find Harry. Instead, he finds a young girl crouching in the corner. He nearly screams out loud, then remembers he is a somewhat respectable author, and decides to do the rest of his screaming internally. His screaming (internal or otherwise) is entirely justified. The girl, who looks to be 13 or 30, is something straight out of the horror novels he sometimes indulges in. Plain, flowy white clothing, matted dark hair, and greyish skin splattered with… red liquid. It doesn’t necessarily have to be blood. God, he hopes it isn’t blood.

Arthur blinks and somehow, the girl is seemingly closer.  _ What the fuck. _ He didn’t see her move a single limb. He blinks again, unable to learn his lesson, and she is nearly at the foot of his chair. Belatedly, he tries to struggle from the chair, realizing he was trapped, unable to lift even a finger.

Since every blink brought her closer, Arthur has the brilliant idea of just staring, keeping himself from blinking as long he possibly can. This idea seems less brilliant once the girl begins to decay in front of his eyes. So if he blinks, she gets closer and if he doesn’t, she creates more trauma. There is no winning.

_ Come play with me…  _ Her mouth, if she has one beneath all that hair, doesn’t seem to move, but Arthur hears the words clearly in his mind.

Oh god she was talking to him. He was  _ dead _ .

\-----

As Arthur continues his standoff, Harry gets increasingly lost in the hallways. He distinctly remembers taking one staircase down, two lefts, then a right to get to the dining area. But when he goes to retrace his steps, he is dismayed to find that he is apparently wrong.  _ Goodbye, logic, you were good to me _ , thinks Harry. At this point, he abandons any pretense of calmness and just runs as quickly as his legs can carry him. Back to Arthur, back someplace safe, or if not, at least they’ll die together. That thought may be overdramatic, but this is an overdramatic situation and Harry is just reacting accordingly.

In the middle of running for his life, his traitorous brain helpfully supplies a “what if Arthur’s in trouble” and that thought pushes him to run faster than he knew he could. Actually, he’s been running for a while now. Why does it seem like there are more hallways now? He remembers passing through four hallways at most.

Harry should be seeing a staircase by now, but he doesn’t so he keeps going. He skids to a stop at this new hallway. It’s the same carpet, wall and ceiling as the other hallways, so it’s the same floor. Except this hallway has bloodred lighting instead of candlelight, and the doors are replaced with life sized portraits of creepy people that Harry is sure he hasn’t seen before. Never a good sign. He tries to backtrack, but his back hits a wall that wasn’t there before so he knows what he has to do.  _ Goodbye dignity, hello freedom. _ He sprints down the hallway trying to dodge the glass bulbs and heavy books thrown at him. Where do these books come from? He didn’t see a library on his way in. Where the fuck are these  _ things _ (no he will  _ not _ admit to the paranormal) getting all these books? He just shuts his eyes and runs, hoping this ends soon.

The staircase appearing literally in front of him is a welcome surprise, but Harry nearly trips on the first step. He recognizes it as the staircase he used earlier, and he stumbles halfway up the steps before he registers the silence. Wait. He turns to look back at the hallway he will henceforth refer to as the  _ murder hallway. _ No more murderous… things, chasing him or throwing anything. Just a regular, quiet hallway. So quiet, it was unsettling. He jogs the rest of the way to their room, ready for anything that might come out to kill him, but is relieved to find nothing. Suspicious, but relieved. Harry’s initial relief is blown away when he remembers Arthur. Holy shit, he left Arthur alone in a murder ghost inn. That’s probably a cardinal sin or something, right next to murder.

Given the circumstances, Harry has little choice but to burst into their room dramatically and proclaim, “Arthur!” in an anguished voice. He is saved from any ensuing embarrassment when he realizes that he did not burst into their room, but instead, into the room directly next to theirs. Except this room is empty. In an inn that is supposed to be full. Harry doesn’t know what’s going on anymore, but that Marlon is surely up to something. Perhaps even something sinister. Harry is going to get answers out of him, once he finds him. Eventually. Marlon is scarily good at disappearing mysteriously.

For now, he focuses on the task at hand. Harry repeats his entrance, anguished yell and all, once he’s sure he’s at the door to their room. Thankfully, Arthur is asleep in a chair by the window and did not have to witness such a display. Thank goodness, Arthur is still safe. He walks over to the other man and, with one hand on each shoulder, proceeds to shake him awake.

“Hey, Art- Arthur!” Arthur jerks up so quickly they nearly collide.

“Whassappening?” Ah yes, the prolific Arthur Conan Doyle. He’s staring at a corner of the room. Harry follows his gaze. There’s nothing there. Seemingly satisfied, he turns his attention to Harry. “Are you alright? You look like you just ran a marathon.”

“I’m alright, now that I know you’re safe.” If that was cheesy, then he has every goddamn right; living through a ghost attack granted him that much. “Besides, what about you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Probably not the best choice of words, but he’s going with that.

“This inn is haunted,” says Arthur and Harry wants nothing more than to agree immediately. However, doing so would only stress Arthur out more and Harry doesn’t want to do that until they can move to another inn. At Harry’s silence, Arthur took that opportunity to tell Harry what he had seen.

“It was just a dream, Arthur.” Reassuring, yes. Truthful, absolutely not.

“A dream, yes, that must be right.” Arthur wants to believe him, but he also feels that it was something more. Sounds too easy of an explanation. Arthur thinks that if this scene was in a book, he’d call out the author’s lazy writing.

While Arthur may have been subjected to a nightmare, Harry has literally lived through one. He represses that memory. It never happened. Ghosts aren’t real. God he’s so scared now. Arthur’s stomach rumbles. Harry remembers the food he got from the restaurant. It tastes fine, if a bit crushed, but neither are in any mood to complain. If their hands shake while they eat neither mentions it.

“We should probably sleep,” volunteers Harry, once the last of their sandwiches has been consumed. Running from ghosts- or whatever was chasing him, which weren’t necessarily ghosts- was tiring. He’s just about ready to drop.

Arthur doesn’t mention that he’d just woken up from a nap. “Yes, we should.” Somehow, the dream exhausted him in a way he doesn’t care to explain.

Except that Marlon never brought in their extra bed. As it is, there is only one bed.

Harry immediately volunteers to just go with the floor. “It’s more comfortable than it looks,” he claims. It looked like any other wooden floor, which in his experience usually wasn't all that comfortable, but he wants to seem gentlemanly in front of his… friend.

Arthur would have none of this, and insists that they’ll both fit on the bed and really, they’re friends, aren’t they? They could handle one night of sleeping in the same bed.

“If you’re sure,” Harry says. Hesitantly, he lifts the covers and slides to the side opposite Arthur’s. He lies on his back, stiffly staring at the ceiling, hoping he could forget about the ghosts enough to sleep tonight. He didn’t really bother with changing into his usual sleeping clothes. A while ago, he was ready to drop from the fading rush of adrenaline. He couldn’t be arsed to do more than kick off his shoes. He regrets that now, just a bit, but not enough to get out of bed.

Inwardly, both are relieved because having another living person so close is a great distraction from thinking about ghosts.

Harry remembers the empty room he passed through. If he really wants to, he could probably crash there. Except… Except there’s a selfish voice in his head saying that this is infinitely better. He agrees, given that this bed has an Arthur and the empty room may be full of ghosts. Yes. He admits it. There might be ghosts.

That’s why they’re sleeping in the same bed. For safety. Against ghosts. And the thin blanket hardly provided any warmth so any platonic cuddling that might follow is totally justified. It’s not as though he’s looking forward to any cuddling, it’s just that he’s prepared for that eventuality. For warmth.

A few minutes tick by in the silence.

“Art, can you sleep?”

“I just woke up from a ghost nightmare, so that’s a no from me.”

“Wait,” Harry sits up in utter surprise. “You saw ghosts too?”

“ _ Too _ ?” Arthur sits up to face him. “You mean you saw ghosts as well?” His Plan is falling into place more quickly than he expected. Magic doesn’t just mean fairies and such; ghosts count too.

Harry wishes he didn’t slip and mention the ghosts. He can’t quite look Arthur in the eye, and misses the excited, rather than scared, look in his face.

“…How hard would you judge me if I said yes.” Because right now, even after living through what he did, he still doesn’t want to believe in ghosts. It seems, in an unexpected turn of events, the ghosts don’t need his belief to exist.

“Harry. I have literally,” he stresses the word, “ _ literally  _ just gone through a Ghost Dream. Nightmare, whatever. And you expect me to judge you?” Arthur shakes his head, incredulous. “Perish the thought.”

This leads to Harry telling Arthur about the strange hallways and the books being thrown and whatnot but stresses that there  _ must  _ be a logical explanation for it.

Arthur swallows, realizing his friend could have died. Nearly did, several times if he hadn’t run when he did. And his first instinct was to come back to him. The thought fills him with warmth. He refuses to think about what that might mean. Instead, he focuses on the growing possibility of ghosts being real. And that they might be out to kill them.

They are now more comfortable sleeping in the perceived safety of one bed and are suddenly grateful that they don’t have separate beds.

Neither can still fall asleep. There’s a rustling of sheets as Harry shifts onto his side, trying to find a more comfortable position. He realizes that Arthur’s hand is right there, lying between them on top of the sheets.

Proximity was one thing, but human contact was even more reassuring. If pressured, he’d blame his next actions on the fact that he was probably extremely shaken about the whole ghost business. Right now, he feels an irrational need to be assured that Arthur was real, beside him, and decides that there really isn’t any harm.

Harry carefully reaches out and grips the hand belonging to the other person in bed. “Hey, would you mind if I held on to your hand until I fall asleep? I’m allergic to ghosts and that’s the only way I can get sleep, my doctor said so,” is something he doesn’t say, and pretends to fall asleep before Arthur can protest.

“I would be honoured to hold your hand for the rest of my life. Especially now that I’m scared shitless, but mostly because you’re important to me,” is what Arthur wants to tell Harry but he doesn’t, because Harry is asleep. Probably.  He curls his own hand around the one gripping his. And because he really likes the warmth that came from the contact.

They spend the night like that, holding hands and if it feels awkward at first, it feels reassuring by the time they each drift off to sleep.

\---

Morning arrives, and with it the realization that neither of them had any nightmares. Considering what they went through last night, this is nothing short of a miracle.

Their first order of business is to find that Marlon fellow. Surely, he’d have something to say regarding this ghost business. At the insistent growl of their stomachs, they reconsider this plan. Well, maybe they could eat before they demand answers from/enact revenge on the innkeeper. After they each wash and dress, they find their way to the restaurant Harry had run into last night. The hallways don’t do anything out of the ordinary and the paintings look decidedly less murder-y that they did last night. It is a relieving, unnerving thing to find that last night’s mess might have been entirely imaginary.

Marlon is there, sitting idly at one of the tables, enjoying his meal. Harry and Arthur have the decency to eat at a separate table and wait until both parties were done with breakfast before confronting him. Marlon, for his part, seems to be expecting them. They exchange pleasantries and Harry tries to find a polite way to ask about ghosts.

“So, ah, remember how you said the inn was full. And there were no rooms left over.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question.

“Well, yeah.” Marlon’s face revealed nothing. He sipped calmly from his mug- of coffee, from the smell- before putting it down.

“But I notice that most of the rooms are empty. Actually, I think every room except ours is empty; especially since the dining area is this deserted at this hour.” Besides Marlon and themselves, there was only one other patron in the room.

“…That might be true.”

“Is it in any way related to your, uh, problem with the,“ Harry gestures vaguely, unsure how to say ‘ghosts’ without sounding like a loon.

Arthur has no such reservations. “Are there really ghosts here? We think we saw them last night.” At that, Marlon’s eyes fell shut, as though it confirmed something he didn’t want to believe.

“You both saw the ghosts?” At their nods, he lets out a resigned sigh. “So the legends are true.” Harry can sense that Marlon is about to unload a tragic backstory regarding the inn’s lore or something and cuts him off.

“That sounds frightfully interesting, but can we get a carriage to the city? We, uh, not be rude, but we’d like to um.” Harry does not have the vocabulary to politely say that they need to leave this fucking place as fast as physically possible. He’s saved from finishing that sentence as Marlon interrupts.

“You can’t, pal. The storm yesterday turned all the roads to mud. Anything with a wheel is not going to survive a mile out there.”

“How about horses?”

“They were all sent to town yesterday to fetch supplies and haven’t returned since. Can’t even send missives now. You’re stuck here for another day or so lads.”

In the corner of the dining area, a woman seated at a shadowy table beckoned to them. It is impressive how she found such a shadowy corner in such a well-lit room. Arthur thinks that maybe they keep the area shadowy just for her. As Harry ponders over their problem, Arthur asks Marlon who she is.

“Oh, her? That’s seer Marie,” replied Marlon, waving cheerfully in her direction. Marie acknowledges him with a single wave of her hand. She points first at Arthur, then at Harry, beckoning them over. “Go to her, she usually has something wise or useless yet entertaining to say.”

“How can we tell those two apart?” Marlon shrugged.

“I don’t know if anyone can do that.”

\---

Seer Marie certainly looks the part; dressed in colorful silks and a veil around her face. As they approach her table, they catch a whiff of what might be incense clinging to her clothes. At a gesture from her, they take the seats opposite her.

“Hello, you, er, wouldn’t happen to know anything about ghosts, would you?” Arthur decides it’s best to be direct. Seer Marie says nothing, only calmly shuffling a deck of cards before fanning them out in front of her. She looks at them expectantly and they obediently pick out a card each, laying them face down on the table. She takes one for herself and places it face up, right in the middle of their cards. It featured a tower struck by lightning, labelled ‘THE TOWER’. She makes a ‘hmm’ sound before flipping over their cards; one called  _ THE MAGICIAN _ , the other  _ THE STAR _ .

Harry looks at his card before saying, “Magician? Bit on the nose, that.”

“The Star? Intriguing.” Arthur has heard of cards like this before. Tarot, he thinks they’re called. “I’ve never had a tarot reading before. May I ask for another?”

As much as Harry wants to indulge Arthur, he just wants to get this over with; he still has a show after all. “We don’t really have time,” he starts to say but stops, seeing how absorbed Arthur was with those cards. Arguing with him now would be useless, so Harry settles down to have another reading.

Seer Marie is already shuffling her cards, pleased to find someone genuinely interested in the occult. “Of course,” her veil flutters as she breathes the words, her accent difficult to place. “This reading will tell me about the current situation in which you find yourselves,” she says, as she places down a card labelled  _ THE LOVERS _ . The veil hides her smile, but it is evident in the crease that appears beside her eyes.

Harry is the most visibly flustered, nearly sputtering in his seat. Arthur just looks confused. He’d thought it would explain more about ghosts. Though, he supposes, it would be difficult to find a tarot card for ‘evil ghosts are threatening the inn you’re staying at, somehow forcing you to share a room with your best friend’. Actually, looking at the card, it  _ did _ show two people sharing a small space. “Makes sense,” mutters Arthur. Harry looks over at his friend, almost offended that he was the only one having this crisis.

“Ah,” is all she says before pulling out the next card, placing it down next to… the same card?

“The same card?”

“Oh, well, the cards are never wrong…” The seer checked the backs of the cards, thinking a stray card from another deck somehow got mixed in. No, it was part of the only deck she had. “Let’s try that again, shall we,” shuffling the cards with a bit more force than necessary. Harry, in all his showman days, hadn’t known it was possible to shuffle cards angrily.

Before she shows them the next card, she peeks to confirm that, yes, it was  _ still _ the same card. Somehow.

Harry, seeing the look on her face, decides to save her from explaining. “Or you know, that’s enough tarot-ing today. Please just tell us about the ghosts.”

Seer Marie regains her composure and puts the cards away. “Well, you know how this chapel was built on an ancient chapel’s burial grounds.”

“No, we did not.” At this point, Harry is ready to accept the cruel joke that his life has become.  _ Of course _ he wouldn’t just be pulled into a horror novel scenario with his best friend. Worse, he was pulled into a  _ romantic  _ horror novel scenario with the friend he might have more than friendly feelings for.

“It is?” Arthur should not sound  _ delighted _ , of all things, at the prospect of ancient curses. Still, it was hard to mistake the tone in his voice as anything other than excitement. “So, this whole inn is cursed? Incredible!” Suddenly looking sheepish, he adds, “or not, I mean it’s a bad thing, right? But still. It’s real! I can’t believe it.”

Harry has a sinking feeling that his friend’s fondness for the supernatural is the reason for their recent misfortunes.

“It’s certainly looking that way,” says Marie. “And you two might be the only ones who can stop it.”

“Wait. Us? Why us?” Harry asks, incredulous. “Why not get a- a professional in all the years this must have been going on?”

Her eyes turn serious. “Because you’re the only ones the spirit hasn’t taken.” It would take a knife to cut through the sudden tension in the air. In the silence that follows, she tells the inn’s tale. “In the past, this inn has suffered from the occasional spirit sighting, but never something this malicious. Just the other day, all the guests disappeared, and you two show up with that storm. When you both last a night unharmed, it leads to certain conclusions.” She raises a finger in warning. “Before you ask, no I can’t go myself because my kind are rejected by the church. I’d just make it worse if I show up.”

Arthur stands up. “Nothing for it, then,” he says. “We’ll help.” Harry mouths  _ what _ at Arthur, who only grins back. “It’s our fault-“

“Circumstantially,” Harry fires back.

“And we’re the only ones-“

“Supposedly.”

“-who can help. And besides, you know I’m going either way. You wouldn’t let me go alone, would you?”

Damn him, he was right. “I suppose  _ someone  _ has to keep you from dying.” Harry hopes he doesn't sound as worried as he feels. “Fine, let’s go.”

\---

This is how Harry finds himself at midnight, sneaking into an abandoned chapel.

Marlon doesn't bat an eye when the two of them ask to use the cellar. He even helpfully shows them the secret passage he'd found behind an empty barrel a few years back. Marie had not only given them answers, but also everything she thought they'd need to deal with the ghosts.

Harry is still reeling from the fact that the supernatural might be real. Beside him, Arthur is humming to himself as he looks over the blessed cross, holy water, and whatever it was Marie gave them. He's almost too happy for someone who might be walking to their death.

It's not an unpleasant walk, but there is something unsettling about the hallway they were passing through. The walls look older than anything in the Inn. If Marie is right, this place might be hundreds of years old. Harry tries not to think about how many ghosts there might be lurking about, watching their every move. He shakes his head.  _ No, ghosts aren't real, they just can't be.  _ That's right, this all must be some practical joke. He really hopes it is.

At the end of a hallway is a door, slightly ajar, almost tempting them. There's a light beneath it, showing the shadows moving about in the room. They stop just before the door.

Harry doesn't know what to say at a time like this. All he knows is that ghosts may or may not exist beyond this door. He's second-guessing his entire reason for being here; would he really risk his life to possibly exorcise a ghost and rescue everyone? Beside him, Arthur looks ready to kick the door wide open, ghosts be damned. Ah, right. Here was his reason. If anything might happen to both of them, Harry doesn't want to leave behind any regrets.

"Arthur." His friend turns to him. "I, er, that is to say," he trails off. Their eyes meet and Harry is forcefully reminded that he is not a man of words. With the resolve of a man with nothing to lose, he does the thing he'd denied himself for so long. He kisses Arthur, a brief contact of lips, and runs into the room to escape any possible consequences. He'd rather face a horde of ghosts than deal with the aftermath of what he'd done. This probably wasn't the best choice. One could even argue that this entire trip is a series of bad choices leading to worse ones. Still, he supposes, there are worse ways to die.

Arthur doesn't give him a chance. With a hand on his cheek, Arthur forces him to make eye contact. "We'll talk about this later," he says, right before smiling and pecking his cheek. He enters the room first, leaving Harry stunned in the doorway.

Harry decides to save his internal crisis for later, when he remembers what they came here to do.

They step into the room and, well, it's what an abandoned chapel looks like. The altar is the last thing Harry sees before his vision swims, darkening at the edges. There's a thud, followed by another, and it takes him a while to register it as the sound of bodies hitting the floor. Specifically, his body, and Arthur's, probably.

_ I'm going to die here, aren't I, _ he thinks, and it's not really a question. With the last of his strength, he tries to reach out to Arthur, but his hand stills in the space between them. His body gives in to the dark, and his eyes fall shut.

\---

Harry wakes up to the faint memory of a dream. At least, until the headache kicks in. Painful as it is, it's a helpful reminder that what he would like to pretend was a dream actually happened.

So, ghosts. Apparently, they're real. Wonderful. Well, it's not like he actually saw them or anything. He might’ve just passed out due to another, definitely un-supernatural reason, like shock. Say, shock from confessing to your best friend and finding out that it's not entirely one-sided. And the kiss. Oh god, that happened didn't it. Fuck. Harry lets out an agonized moan, conveying a mere fraction of his internal anguish.

"You're awake!" Harry doesn't open his eyes, but that outburst could only be Marlon. "You had us worried there, pal."

"I am, now,"  _ though I'd rather I wasn't,  _ is left unsaid. Harry tries to sit up, and aside from additional dizziness, finds himself unhurt.

"That’s good, though I can't do any more for you, health-wise.” Marlon puts away the medical pouch he had opened on his lap. “I'll leave you to yourselves; I've got a full inn to run, and you two to thank for it."

"You mean the guests are back?" They  _ actually _ did it? What did they even do? But more importantly: "And Arthur. Where's Arthur?"

"First of all, Arthur is fine." When Harry remains tense, he adds, "he went to get you something to eat, to be ready when you wake up." Harry does visibly relax at that. Marlon finds himself smiling. Ah, young love.

"But the guests?"

"Oh, yeah. I'm not exactly sure what you two did, but you did something right. They're all back, somehow." In a low voice, he says, "'tween you and me, I'd rather not find out why." Harry nods emphatically. "Anyway, Seer Marie tipped me off as to what might happen to you two.” So she was to thank for their recovery. “She said to fetch you both from the Chapel hallway if you didn't come back by dusk, so I did. I didn't see nothing in the room I found you in, save some scorch marks along the wall." Marlon pauses to scratch his head. "It's the darndest thing, I say. After taking you both back, I can't seem to find the entrance. S'almost as if it don't want to be found."

"Well, so long as the guests are back…"

"Yep."

"And Arthur is safe…"

"Definitely."

"And our rooms are free of charge."

"... Alright, I'd say you both deserve that at least."

Yes! Score one for capitalism.

"Now, beg your pardon, but I really need to tend to the guests." Marlon leaves the room, taking his medical pouch with him.

Arthur enters then, seemingly waiting by the door for Marlon to leave. Harry takes this as a sign to mean Arthur wants to talk to him alone. Harry's headache warns him that this cannot possibly end well.

Arthur puts down the covered platter he was carrying onto their table. He takes the seat that Marlon recently vacated.

Harry looks at the ceiling, painted bright white by the light streaming in through the window. Arthur doesn't break the silence, content to twist his palms in his lap. Harry has to be the first to talk it seems.

"You're alright, then?"

Arthur finally faces him, but just as quickly looks away. "Mhm, yes. How about you?"

"Could be better. M'head aches something awful."

"Mm," is all Arthur replies. Perhaps that's all you can say to the pain of others. "So." Harry can feel it coming, involuntarily wincing in anticipation. "Ghosts." That's not where he expected this to go.

"Yes. Well. They might be real," Harry looks around the room trying not to imagine it coming to life with murderous apparitions, "allegedly."

Arthur, oblivious to his trauma, perks up. "I can't believe we actually got firsthand experience with the supernatural!"

"We might have died." Someone had to say it.

"But we didn't! Isn't that wonderful!" At Harry's less than impressed look, he adds, "Though I understand you might be jaded to such an experience, what with your magic and all that."

"What? I told you, my illusions are simply that-"

"No! No, well that too, but I meant the other things."  _ The other things? _

"There are other things?"

"Remember? The fairies? In the forest, with the stream?"

"That- you mean," Harry has to physically stop himself from calling it their first date out loud. "The picnic in the storm?"

"Yes! Couldn't you feel it? I could tell there was something… Magical, don't you? I felt warm in the rain, next to you. And you said you talked to fairies!” Arthur looked ready to burst with energy. “Can't get more magical than that. And that stream, surely it was a ley line; when we touched, I swear I could've felt a spark." 

"Oh. Um. Well."

"And the soup you brought me must've been magic, surely. I didn't feel that level of care from any other soup. So you  _ must _ have something to do with it."

Harry is starting to see a pattern he doesn't want to see.

"And finally! Ghosts! In this Inn, where I shared a room with you? Let's see you try to call that a coincidence, Mr. Realist."

Alright, fine. That last one was the most suspiciously supernatural. But for all the other ones… "Arthur. Call it what you will, magic, supernatural,"  _ love _ , he doesn't add. "I felt it too, with you. And what I said. Down there, when we, you know. I meant it."

"Oh, I know. And so did I. I said we'd talk about it, so we will." Harry mentally steels himself. "How does Friday at 8 sound?" Wait what.

"What?"

"Your schedule is free by then, right? I thought we'd discuss it over some steak, I know a lovely place, and after I could have you over at my flat, and you can try to convince me that magic doesn't exist."

"That. That sounds wonderful." They're both blushing now, and Harry can't contain the laugh that bubbles from his chest. Relief, maybe, or he's starting to go mad. He feels lighter now, free from a weight he didn't even notice. Maybe _this_ was the real magic all along. 

Harry decides he believes in magic after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to formally apologize to Arthur Conan Doyle and Harry Houdini (or, by his real name, Erik Weisz) whose ghosts I hope don't judge me for this, and to their wives, who I have insistently ignored throughout the entire thing.  
> Congrats! You made it this far! This is probably the longest thing I've written. Shoutout to Cass, who can be blamed for the creation of this, when she dared me to write a fanfic for two dead guys I didn't know. This was actually fun to write, and probably wouldn't be finished without her.  
> [Go yell at me on tumblr.](https://silver-parseltongues.tumblr.com/)


End file.
